


No "I" in "Team"

by destinyofshipwreck



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Lipogram, for team-building reasons, on the letter "I"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinyofshipwreck/pseuds/destinyofshipwreck
Summary: She's drawn by the thought of the crumb of sea salt by the corner of Scott's mouth, or the sweat at the edge of Scott's forehead, and how easy and fast she could just reach across the table and brush away the salt and the sweat, and how he would feel under her hand.She doesn't.





	No "I" in "Team"

"Scott, stop," she says, morosely. "That was too much, we need a break."

"Don't sound so gloomy, T," he says, and moves to clap her on the shoulder, then recalls what they’re up to and steps back. "We'll get there eventually."

Jean-Marc Généreux has proposed to teach them how to touch one another, as though they had never touched one another before, as though an excess of touch had not always been most of the problem before, and the prospect of success has never seemed more remote.

The afternoon's struggle had been to approach one another, stop just short of one another, and regulate heartbeat and breath—the breath part worked out for Tessa, she has that one under control, but her heart rate accelerated at Scott's hands up close to the small of her back, and would not be swayed, over and over, for two hours now.

"Don't look at me that way," she says, at the leer, subtle and small, on Scott's face. "You aren't my weakness."

"Sure," he says.

Jean-Marc agrees that they ought to wrap up here for the day, and lets them leave.

They break apart to change from sweats to street clothes. Scott already offered, before they even got to the gym, to take her out after for a hamburger and a beer or two after, but he's always been lazy and languorous to clean up after a day at work, so who knows how long he'll be. Tessa would never let any amount of delay stand between her and a free meal, so she stretches out on a bench by the door. He takes about a half an hour longer than she does, long enough for a short nap.

The burgers are generously bacon-bedecked, the beers are hoppy pale ales, and she and Scott don't have much to say to each other. Fortunately for the sake of Tessa's comfort, the bar’s almost too loud to talk anyway.

The afternoon's awkwardness hangs heavy between them.

She's drawn by the thought of the crumb of sea salt by the corner of Scott's mouth, or the sweat at the edge of Scott's forehead, and how easy and fast she could just reach across the table and brush away the salt and the sweat, and how he would feel under her hand.

She doesn't.

He takes her back to her townhouse and walks her up the steps onto the porch, where they both pause.

"Thanks for the burger and beers," she says.

Scott leans toward her to hug her and she toward Scott, by reflex, but they both remember and stop at the same moment.

She's restless, though, not content to leave off there, so she steps forward.

She almost brushes her mouth up to Scott's, knows he can feel her breath; almost runs her palms down the dense muscle of Scott's chest, knows he can feel her touch; and she stands on the balls of her feet, to change the angle of approach, and she almost presses her crotch up to the front of Scott's pants, and she knows he can feel her heat.

Scott's cock throbs and swells under the dense canvas, and she can sense the movement almost before the moment of contact, a shock as unexpected as a thunderclap.

"You lose," she murmurs, softly, her mouth almost pressed to Scott's ear.

He pulls away, cheeks deeply flushed.

"Got late all of a sudden, huh," he says, unnaturally loud. "Better go, see you tomorrow," and he turns to start down the steps.

"Sure," she says.

Jean-Marc brought coffee, they're both glad to see, and he hands them each a paper cup when they walk through the door to the foyer where he meets them the next day, very early, an hour before dawn. They carpooled there, to save on gas, Scott's apartment's just a few blocks down the street from hers anyway.

They spend two hours seated on the floor, a few feet away from each other, where Jean-Marc encourages them to talk about the bond they share and what the bond has meant to them over the years. All very pat, all very formal, no unexpected elements at all, as though they're on a conference panel for mental health and sport.

"And now," he says, "Now, you'll actually touch, you're ready."

"Jesus,” says Tessa.

"No reason to delay any further," says Jean-Marc.

Tessa starts to stammer about how maybe another day or two won't hurt, her heart rate problem, you know, she never resolved that, but Jean-Marc cuts her off.

"You're a team, and you'll talk as part of a team. There's no 'you' problem, only 'we' problems, and you'll work through them together."

Tessa's flummoxed, at a loss for words. Scott's across the room, but he looks over at her, and she could swear he's about to leer some more, the bastard.

"Say 'together'," Jean-Marc says, as he tactfully edges between them.

"Together," they chorus.

"Good," he says.

"Together, just us, we know," says Scott. "What's the game plan?"

"You'll take turns to lean toward one another, but don't reach." Scott's arm was already outstretched toward Tessa before Jean-Marc could complete the sentence. "Scott, no, don't reach out for her, let her lean toward you to make contact."

"Trust falls? For God's sake, how hackneyed can we be," says Tessa, but Scott's already come around to stand next to her, hands ready.

"Lean back," he says, and she does.

"Focus on your breath," says Jean-Marc. "Both of you."

Tessa breathes, deep and slow, and relaxes as Scott's huge hands catch her and draw her close. The pace of her heart slows to match her breath, as had not happened yesterday, at Scott's touch. He can feel her heartbeat, almost for sure, and she's so embarrassed by how easy she has always been for those hands that she wants to run from the room.

"Not bad, eh?" says Jean-Marc. "Now you, Scott."

He releases her, and she stands up, shakes off the embarrassment, and spreads her own hands before her to reach toward Scott, who has turned around to face away from her.

"Lean back," says Jean-Marc, and he does.

Scott's back muscles are taut under her hands and when he makes contact, slow and careful, she shudders, her hands clench, she moves them to Scott's shoulders as though Jean-Marc wouldn't see, but of course he does.

"Okay," says Jean-Marc. "Relax, both of you. Don't go too hard too fast, that would undo the work, you know?"

They know.

"Let's start from the top, tomorrow," he says, and waves them off.

They've never been able to leave the work at work: they've always taken the work home, to whoever's home was closest, to any of Scott's seedy rental apartments or Tessa's townhouses full of hardwood. They've never had a problem, except when they do, when she can't stand Scott's hands on her or he can't stand the uncontrollable arch of her back. They've never not taken out all the pleasure or agony of work on one another, even when that meant long stretches where nobody spoke, out of anger, or out of tongues that had more urgent tasks at hand than to talk.

"There's hours before we need to be back here," says Scott. "How about let's work some more."

He leads her by the hand through the foyer and out to the lot where the truck's parked, no pause to shower or change, and he doesn't ask her, he just takes her home, to her own townhouse, but he follows her through the door, and takes her by the shoulder once they've reached the bedroom, and turns her around so they're face to face, just to  _look_  at her, and her knees about buckle beneath her.

"Good," he says, "Thought maybe you were okay and there was just a—what Jean-Marc called a 'me problem'," and then he bears her backward onto the bed, and he's so hard, and she's so ready, she can't pull her own clothes off fast enough.

Through some maneuver of tangled arms and legs she's on her hands and knees on the bed and he's only half-dressed, jeans tossed away, and then he's pressed to her, and she moans aloud.

"How do you feel," he murmurs onto her neck, "about that," and he wraps a hand around her breast, " _lean_  that Jean-Marc told us about," he squeezes hard and she gasps, "maybe you could try that out," and she does, she  _leans_  backward, hard, from the shoulder, as much force as she can muster, and he gasps, too, when he's engulfed by her cunt, and she squeezes back.

When Scott comes, the shock's not the suddenness of a thunderclap, but the slow roll of the storm's approach, and the relentlessness pushes her over her own edge, fast and brutal.

"So, was that a breakthrough?" she asks Scott, once she's caught her breath.  
  
"Your heart rate's steady," he says. "But we probably can't brag about that and expect to be congratulated, no."  
  
"Oh well," she says.  
  
"What, you won't tell me that that was enough of a reward?" he asks, mouth curved downward, a faux pout.  
  
"No, not for the purpose of the team," she says, mock solemnly. "We'll have to try more tomorrow, or we won't know for sure."  
  
"Just us," he says.  
  
"Shut up," she says, and presses her palm to Scott's mouth.


End file.
